The Wager
by outtabreath
Summary: Tony makes a bet with Pepper. Strong T rating.
1. Sunday

This fic was inspired by JaneTurenne's sublime Holmes/Watson fic, One Week.

I don't own the characters, just the situation(s) I put them in.

As always, love and devotion to miss steph (my own long-suffering beta) and my fellow RDJ addicts at Writers Anonymous.

**~*~The Wager by outtabreath~*~**

**One of Eight: Sunday**

"Why are you working on Sunday, Potts?"

I glanced up at Tony as he stood in the doorway to my mansion office, staring at me blearily and appraisingly; he was actually awake and dressed – in sweatpants and a t-shirt with ridiculously messy hair, but, still, actually _dressed_ – on a Sunday morning.

It was rather impressive. And more than a little disarming.

"Because that's what I get paid to do," I pointed out, tearing my eyes away from where the waistband of his pants didn't quite meet the hem of his shirt. "We leave for Paris on Friday and I have things to attend to."

"You could attend to me," he offered, stretching obscenely before shuffling his bare feet over to a chair so he could plop his shapely ass in it. "It'd be more fun than dealing with the French."

"I'm your _assistant_," I pointed out. Again.

"Right, so how about you assist me in my bedroom for a while?"

I thought about how much I needed another cup of coffee before I dealt with him, then dismissed the notion. He was here and somewhat engaged – if I were to leave him to his own devices while I got more caffeine, I'd most likely never regain his attention.

"I'm sure you could find numerous people willing to help you there," I said briskly. "I'd like to focus on your non-bedroom activities."

"Jacuzzi?" he asked, yawning and scratching his fingers through his hair.

I was unable to understand how it made him look even sexier.

"No, thank you," I said politely. "I want to go over what you need to do to do this week: First, you have the people from Hew-."

"I want to go over what_ you_ need to do to do this week," he interrupted.

I was well into the second syllable before I realized he'd spoken. "Pardon?"

"So polite," he grinned. "I said that I wanted to go over what I needed you to do this week."

I frowned at him. "Tony, I tell you what you need to do, not the other way around."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that, Pepper – but I need to discuss a very important matter with you. A very important and _delicate_ matter."

My mind started to boggle as I ran through the possibilities: He'd gotten married while he was drunk; he'd married _Rhodey_ while he was drunk; one of his numerous conquests had made him a daddy; one of the _bots_ had made him a daddy; he'd finally starred in a movie with Jenna Jameson like he'd been threatening to for years; he'd taken out an immensely old and important monument while in the suit.

I steeled myself. Whatever it was, I could spin it. Then I'd proceed to make his life miserable for the next six months. Ten if it was porn-related.

"What is it, Tony?" I asked in my very best assistant's voice. My fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to take notes.

"People have noticed, Pepper," he began.

"What? That you fly around in a big metal suit?" I asked. "That would be because you _told_ them you fly around in a big metal suit."

"No," he said, very seriously. "That you can't stop devouring me with your eyes."

I blinked at him stupidly. I was good at hiding it, I knew I was. Which meant he was fishing. He was being _Tony._

"Are you drunk?" I demanded; oftentimes, outright attack was the best policy.

"It's nine AM," he said, sounding horribly wounded.

"On Sunday," I clarified. "Are you _still_ drunk?"

"No. Promise. I haven't had a drop in a week. Ten days. Five."

I could've asked Jarvis, of course, but that would've been _cheating_; instead, I stood and leaned towards him, balancing my weight on my desk, and took a deep breath; I could smell Skittles and Red Bull and coffee – why weren't all of his brain cells blown to bits yet? – but no thick and sour alcohol smell.

"High?"

Granted, he'd never really used pharmaceuticals or similar with any real focus – alcohol and women were his drugs of choice – but I needed to dismiss all possibilities.

Because I _did not_ devour him with my eyes – not so anyone would notice, at any rate.

He scoffed. "I need to be ready to fly into danger at a moment's notice, Pepper. Do you _really_ think I'd impair myself like that?"

I narrowed my eyes and admitted that no, the new Tony wouldn't do that.

There was only one other explanation.

I sat down and pulled up file that contained the mental status exam I'd found the second week I worked for him. It wasn't surprising that I needed it, just that it'd taken so long.

"What's your name?" I asked, pitching my voice soothingly; I didn't want to excite any psychotic processes.

"I'm not crazy."

"That has yet to be established," I said. "Who's the President?"

"I don't think I'm Jesus, George Washington or Hugh Hefner - though I'd love to be him for a day, but only if that day was in the 60's. Not now. I don't want to wear a diaper – and I know that I'm on the planet Earth. You're Pepper, my indefatigable assistant, and I'm Tony Stark, inventor and part-time superhero. And I have a proposition for you."

And I got it. He was trying to flirt with his usual Jericho-missile-like subtlety.

"I'm not sleeping with you, Tony," I said, more out of habit than any actual thought.

He chuckled. "Actually, I was thinking the exact opposite. For the next week you can't touch me or kiss me."

I could feel my eyes goggling despite my best efforts to prevent it as I pointed out, "I never kiss you, Tony."

Almost kisses on moonlight rooftops _did not count_.

"Then it won't be a problem," he grinned.

"What color is the sky?" I asked, glancing back at my list of questions.

"Blue," he murmured, meeting and catching my eyes before blinking and leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "Anyway, I'll make it worth your while."

"Make what worth my while?"

"You keeping your lips and hands to yourself for the next seven days, Potts. Please try to keep up."

"Tony," I said, more than a little exasperated. I knew he had an angle, Tony _always _had an angle, but I couldn't quite figure it out.

"I'm not sure you can entirely resist me, Pepper, and I think we need to reestablish the boundaries between us," he said, and I almost believed him. "So, I'm offering you a bet."

"I don't bet," I said automatically.

"You haven't heard the terms."

I tilted my head and I could see his eyes follow a strand of hair as it fell from my ponytail. It was weird.

He was definitely up to something.

"Shoes," he said, finally meeting my eyes once more. "The ones you were mentally molesting when we were in Paris last month."

"The Chanel floral pumps?" I breathed, feeling woozy. Those were the most beautiful shoes I'd ever seen.

I knew listening to him further was stupid, probably the most stupid thing I'd ever done – the most unprofessional and unethical thing ever. But. Tony made my life difficult on a daily – sometimes hourly – basis and those shoes were unbelievable.

There were organza camellias on them.

I glanced at him. "And what do you get if I," I swallowed and tried to pretend I was choking back a laugh and not just choking, "can't resist you?"

"You mean besides the kissing and/or touching?"

I nodded sharply.

"I get to cancel one meeting a week for the next four weeks."

"From a predetermined list," I said quickly; I may have been crazy for contemplating his wager, but I hadn't completely lost all reason.

"Two from a pre-determined list and two of my own choosing," he countered

I stared at him evenly. "And what if _you_ touch me. Or kiss me?"

He grinned. "Don't worry about that, Pep."

I ignored the sharp pain in my chest and shook my head. "You'll try to cheat, so you need to keep _your_ hands and lips to yourself, too."

He sat up very straight and grinned. "And if I do, I get my two freebies."

"Terms," I said. "If I can't keep my hands to myself," I rolled my eyes, "you get your four cancelled meetings: two from a list of my choosing, two of your own. If you can't keep your hands to yourself, I get my shoes."

"And lips," he said brightly. "We're keeping our lips to ourselves, too."

"And lips," I said, very pointedly not looking at his. "And if we both behave and there is no untoward physical contact before next Sunday?"

"Saturday," he said. "Seven days is Saturday."

"Fine. Saturday."

"Then I'll get you those shoes and I'll know that you _don't _devour me with your eyes," he said.

"Like people say I do."

He nodded gravely. "Like many people say you do."

I thought it over for a minute. I'd spent many years indulging Tony's ill-conceived ideas: Iron Man, the new generation of sex toys he was sure would revolutionize the industry, his desire to buy an island for his secret lair (why a secret lair, Tony? You opened your big mouth and _everybody_ knows you're a superhero), and his suspicions that the bots and Jarvis were plotting to take over the mansion.

His latest ill-conceived idea wasn't even in the same league.

We'd spent years not kissing each other.

What did a week – even one that we were marking – matter?

Besides, there were black Chanel platform pumps with beaded organza camellias and a Louis heel to be had out of the deal.

"Okay," I said, my mouth watering at the thought of the shoes.

He stood in one fluid motion and started to walk around the corner of my desk. I jumped to my feet out of pure preservation – Tony was quite good at leaning – and watched him warily.

"So, do we have an accord?" he asked.

"You watch _Pirates of the Caribbean_ way too much," I pointed out.

"That's not possible," he said, sticking his hand out towards me.

I looked askance at it. No touching meant no hand shaking.

He followed my thinking and grinned wryly. "God you're suspicious, Potts. We have a bet and we need to shake on it. The clock starts as soon as we do."

I met his hand, completely unprepared for the jolt it engendered in my stomach; his eyes widened briefly and his hand tightened around mine.

We stood for a long moment, hands clasped, looking at each other, then he began to slowly move my hand towards his lips. I watched frozen and breathless as he mouthed each knuckle gently.

I huffed – _querulously_, I prayed and hoped fervently - and he looked at me from beneath lowered lashes. "I just wanted to know what I was missing out on."

"I'll need that hand back," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"In a sec," he said before gently pressing his teeth into the pad of my thumb, then pressing a tender kiss to the tingling skin.

"I want to be able to manipulate my mouse so I can look at pictures of my shoes," I said, trying very hard not to let my voice betray the fact that every single one of my hormones was carbonated.

He smoldered at me for a moment, then announced, "You're kind of cocky, Potts. I _like_ it."

I smiled more calmly than I felt, said, "I have great faith in my abilities," and, with herculean effort, slid my hand from his and began the week.


	2. Monday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

Favoriting a story without leaving a review makes baby animals cry. Please don't make the baby animals cry. If you like a story enough to favorite it, let the author know _why._

If you'd like to see the shoes that Pepper is lusting after, please go to the Chanel website and search for the Platform Pumps with Organza Camellias. They are freaking gorgeous.

**Two of Eight: Monday**

I dreamed of Tony.

I did it often: mostly nightmares of him and Afghanistan and Iron Man and him being _gone_; sometimes I was still at work – endless days of managing his life that stretched into eternity; rarely, there were innocent dreams of skin and lips and sweetness with a Tony who was far less worldly than the Tony of my waking life.

And then there was the fevered dream of the first night of the wager.

Innocence, fear and exhaustion consumed by Tony's body, Tony's lips, Tony's teeth and tongue and hands on my skin – my hands, my shoulders, my breasts, _everywhere_. Slow and sliding and not stopping through eons of pleasure that had me gasping his name, pleading for completion, for him. Tony. Tony. Tony.

Always Tony.

I jolted awake in the dark with my hands between my legs and his name still on my lips. Before I could stop myself – before I was even fully aware – I was spasming.

I breathed slowly and steadily, trying to make out my ceiling in the darkness and wondering if Tony's eyes would be as black if he….

Nope, I decided. I was not going to go there.

He was my boss and, moreover, he was Anthony Edward Stark and that way lay madness.

Besides, he'd said he wouldn't have any problems keeping his hands and lips off of me.

The hand sex – and that's when I realized I'd categorized it as such – had been quintessential Tony, the actions of a man who'd made pushing boundaries and limits – be it with his body, other people or technology – the singular focus of his life.

The shoes and proving to everyone – especially _him_ – that I didn't devour my boss with my eyes (openly or on anything approaching a regular basis) were my only priorities.

I fell asleep imaging the feel of the shoes. And, if, possibly, Tony was there, too, it was merely a coincidence.

After all, Tony was _always _there.

I got to work on time. Made coffee, asked Jarvis for an update on our problematic charge (in the workshop toiling away under the hot rod, where he'd been most of the night), and got to work.

Four hours later, I decided to go check on him.

The glass doors to the shop were rattling to the percussion of Black Sabbath – I could still fondly remember when I'd been unable to identify metal bands from drums alone – when I cut the music and entered.

"I hate that, you know!" he groused from beneath the car.

"I am aware," I said. "I brought you lunch."

"What happened to breakfast?"

"I don't know," I said, setting the sandwich and milk down on a table. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy."

"No," he said, sliding out from under the car. "_You're_ always busy."

He stood up and I got a really good look at him: he was completely filthy and my knees shook slightly; I slid myself into a chair and pretended that they didn't.

"That's true," I said, agreeing with his assessment of my life. "I have some things we need to go over before your conference call."

He stretched and scratched at his belly; the material on his grimy tank bunched under his fingers and I could see a flash of skin. "What conference call?"

"The one with the Director-General of UNE – Tony you're prese- – on Satu- I've had Jarvis reminding you every thirty minutes."

"I remember, Potts," he smirked, "So you can keep your panties on." He lowered his head and looked at me from under his lashes, a winning look he'd perfected over the years. "Unless…."

I, however, had been immune to the look since my third week as his assistant. I gave him a quelling, intimidating stare; and, if my knees pressed together involuntarily, it was merely a coincidence.

"Just wanted to put the offer out there," he said. "Showing isn't touching, you know."

"Tony, the Director-General of UNESCO is currently in New York and is taking time out of his very busy schedule to talk to you about Saturday. He's delaying his return to France in order to talk to you."

"I said I know. Conference call."

"Video conference call," I said pointedly.

"Shower?" he asked.

I knew he was inviting as well as asking; I chose to ignore it.

"And a suit. _Of material_," I said as his eyes lit up. "Natural fibers and a neutral col- you know what, I'll pick out your suit."

"And my tie?"

"Of course."

"Can I go barefoot?"

"Only if you wear socks and promise to stay seated the entire time."

"Pantless?"

"No."

"He won't see."

"You are not going to have a video conference with the Director-General of UNESCO in your underwear."

"I had a video conference with the Playmate of the Year in my underwear, it's the same thing."

"Hardly," I sniffed, refusing to ask which year he was referring to. I really didn't want to know.

"Maybe I wasn't wearing underwear," he said musingly.

I cleared my throat and amped up the glare.

He smiled brightly. "Will you help me get dressed?"

"Absolutely not."

"One day you will," he said confidently.

The heat of the dream swamped me and I snapped my eyes down to my BlackBerry. "You need to eat, shower and make yourself presentable and you have an hour to do it. Get going, please."

"Yes ma'am."

I hazarded a look up to check on his compliance and was rewarded with the impressive expanse of Tony's bare chest. I'd seen it before, of course – I'd put a freaking arc reactor in it – but that was before I'd agreed to not, under any circumstances, touch it – before I'd _dreamed _about it. Heightened awareness coursed through me.

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you ogling me, Miss Potts?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out how you allow yourself to get so dirty."

"Dirty is kind of my thing," he smirked. "I'm an expert at it."

"Shower. Now."

"What about lunch?" he asked innocently, heading towards the sandwich; I noticed that he'd undone the button on his jeans and they were slipping down his hips.

"You were able to survive without breakfast, you can wait five more minutes for lunch," I said commandingly.

"Tyrant."

I lowered my head, trying to focus on the letters of the words that comprised the email I was answering.

I heard the sharp slap of something hitting the floor; I discovered it was one work boot, followed by the other, when I looked up again. His back was to me but he was completely attuned to my attention. As soon as I'd picked up my head, he'd twisted his own back over one shoulder and gifted me with a smoldering look.

"See anything you like?"

"A man doing what he's told," I answered, looking down again. "Though faster would be better."

"Potts, I should find the man – or men – that convinced you of that and kick their asses. They did you a great disservice. Slow is good," he purred. "It's very, very good. Especially when I'm doing it."

I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead I glanced up in quick cuts as he finished stripping for me – and there was no doubt that that was exactly what he was doing – right down to his black boxer briefs.

Very tight boxer briefs that cupped each perfectly rounded cheek of his….

His hands went for the waistband and I jolted to my feet, eyes fixed on the screen of the phone, and strode towards the door.

"Jarvis?" he asked conversationally; I froze, intrigued despite my rapidly disintegrating better judgment. "What're Miss Potts' vitals?"

If I throttled him, I'd lose. Ditto for ripping him from limb-to-limb with my bare hands. Beating him senseless with my Jimmy Choos held some allure, right up until the moment I realized that I'd never be able to wear them again.

And that they'd be accessories to murder.

"Her heart rate is ninety-five BPM and her rate of respiration is twenty-five breaths per minute," Jarvis intoned.

"Jarvis!" I yelled before I could stop myself.

"I apologize, Miss Potts," Jarvis said soothingly.

"All above normal," Tony noted, ignoring me.

"That's correct, Sir," Jarvis said.

"And she's _flushed_ and trembling. What do you think that means?"

"Don't you dare answer that, Jarvis!" I commanded even as I steeled myself and turned towards Tony with my very best glare – the one that made Senators and engineers alike cry – fixed firmly in my eyes. "Stop talking about me."

He was still in his underwear, his fingers idly stroking the skin beneath the waistband. "I was having a conversation with Jarvis because you were leaving. Did you change your mind? Are you staying?"

"Get. In. The. Shower."

"As you wish," he said, drawing out the words and wriggling his eyebrows.

"You're no Westley," I yelped.

"Whatever you say, Buttercup," he replied, winking at me and pushing his hands between cloth and skin; his hipbones – perfect parentheses bracketing his lower abdominals – burst into view.

I spun around, swallowed several sounds – only one of which was an actual word – and outright fled.


	3. Tuesday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

Lecture and info about Pepper's shoes in Part Two.

Banter and cars in This Part.

**Three of Eight: Tuesday**

I figured out four things at 3 AM on Tuesday morning:

First, it wasn't that I wanted to touch him – it was just that I didn't _not_ want to touch him either.

Second, that wasn't _new_, exactly – things had been shifting subtly since he'd come home.

Third, Tony wasn't going to make this easy, so I was going to have to play dirty.

Fourth, that had probably been his plan all along.

I punched my pillow – the very same one I vaguely remembered hugging tightly when I started awake, pushed out of another dream of _Tony Tony Tony_, this one complete with me tonguing and sucking the jutting bones of his hips – following them as they led me inexorably to…somewhere lower.

Stop, I told myself. Stop now, Virginia.

After far longer than I liked, I was able to redirect my thoughts from hipbones to retaliation.

The problem, I decided, was that I'd been _reacting_ to Tony since he'd shuffled into my office with bed head and sleepy eyes on Sunday morning. Pepper Potts was not reactive, she was proactive, and it was time that I remembered that.

Tony was in the workshop when I arrived at the house. Jarvis assured me that he'd slept for eight hours. I guessed that tormenting his PA and charming the socks off the Director-General of UNESCO had taken a lot out of him.

I wondered how many hours of sleep he'd get after I was done with him.

I fluffed my hair, hated myself a little for doing it, and headed downstairs.

"Morning, Potts." He was focused on a 3-D representation of the latest permutation of the suit.

"Good Morning, Mr. Stark," I replied.

"Did you bring me coffee?" he asked, spinning the suit graphic and moving around bits and pieces of it.

I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I needed to stick to my plan, dropped my voice and tried to sound sultry. "You don't need caffeine, Tony."

"What? What's the matter with your voice?" He was frowning as he finally looked at me. Instantly, his face cleared and a slow smile flooded his familiar features as he took in my unruly hair, tight jeans and tighter Iron Man t-shirt. It was a smile I rarely had the opportunity to see. It made an appearance when he received a new high-tech toy, made a new industry-changing discovery; it was on full display in the old pictures of him and his parents.

It was a smile of pure and unbounded amazement and happiness.

My stomach lurched and I almost abandoned my plan: seduction and that smile just didn't belong together.

Then it slid into one much less innocent and much more lecherous. "I like the shirt."

And, with that, the plan was back on.

I made a non-committal noise.

"I also like that you couldn't afford one that actually fits."

I raised an eyebrow at him and shuffled closer to the hot rod.

"But aren't you dressed a little casually for work, Miss Potts?"

Do it, Virginia, I told myself. Fight fire with fire.

"I thought it would be a nice change," I responded, keeping my voice low and breathy. It took a lot of work.

He closed out his work and prowled towards me, his movements akin to the feline predators of the Asian jungles. "Oh it is. It really, really is."

I circled around the car, keeping it between us, running my fingertips lightly over the chrome and leather. The metal was cool and slippery, the leather soft and sleek.

Tony stopped in mid-prowl and stared at me. "What're you doing, Pepper?"

"Getting to know your hot rod a little better," I answered, walking around to his side again so he could watch as I gently traced one of the flames with a fingernail, caressed the tire, trailed my fingertips along the side, followed the straight gold line to the back. I stepped close to the car and placed my palms flat against the lid of the trunk and leaned forward, sliding my hands toward the leather of the seat.

I could actually _feel_ his gaze on my ass.

"So," I said throatily, flipping around to face him and leaning my body back on my elbows. "Tell me all about the pistons and torque and wheel alignment."

He took a step closer to me; I held my ground.

"How do you know those words, Virginia Potts?"

I started – he _never_ called me Virginia; up until that moment, I wasn't even sure he remembered that I hadn't been born Pepper – and answered thickly, "I think I've soaked them up from you by osmosis.

"Now, what kind of horsepower will this thing get when you finally finish tinkering with it?" I swirled my hand across the glossy black paint and gave him a smoldering look. "Will it go _fast_, Tony?"

He closed the distance between us in two devastatingly powerful strides, stopping mere millimeters from my toes. He carefully placed his feet on either side of mine and leaned forward slowly, coming to rest with his arms bracketed around my body, his body weight resting on his hands; he had effectively caged me in. I was chagrined and impressed in equal measure to find that, despite the fact that we should've been plastered against each other, his body was not touching mine.

Lord, he was good at leaning.

"More car words, please," he growled.

I could feel the heat radiating from him – fancied I could hear his heart thundering over the gentle whooshing of the arc reactor – knew I could taste his breath on my tongue.

"Ignition timing," I murmured, my brain kicking into the memory of Tony's lectures to me on the importance of buying a high-quality automobile, "Crankshafts, fuel pump" - why were all of the words so dirty? What was _wrong _with mechanics? - "Camshafts, spark plugs, fuel injectors…." I trailed off as his face loomed closer. My eyes started to slide closed, readying myself for victory in the form of a kiss.

He chuckled and my eyes popped open, meeting his. He shook his head slowly. "Damn, Potts. I need you to make a recording of that. I could listen to it at night when I'm all alone in my bed."

"You know I won't do that."

"That's really too bad," he sighed, pushing away from me and executing a graceful barrel roll that ended with him laying on his back beside me. After a moment of what I was laughingly calling thought, I released my arms, settling on my back on the car.

The seat was pressing against the crown of my head, my feet barely reached the floor, there was barely enough room for the both of us, the metal was unyielding and I was completely comfortable.

I could hear him shifting slightly, and I turned my head to find him facing me, looking intently at me, his eyes roaming my face.

I blinked, cleared my throat and shifted a little. "Your car is pretty comfortable," I said. I'd thoroughly lost control of the situation; it was time to regroup.

"The back seat's better," he said, tipping his forehead towards the leather above our heads. "Want to give it a try?"

"There's only one seat," I pointed out.

"Which makes it the _back_ seat as well as the front seat. Whatta you say?"

"No."

"We could make out like teenagers."

"Still no."

"You're sure? It's leather, Potts, leather. Slippery, firm, flexible leather." He said it like he was trying to hypnotize me.

"It's not going to work, Tony."

"You're sure?"

"Very," I lied.

"Okay," he said, folding his hands over his stomach and smiling warmly at me.

I blinked at him. It couldn't be that easy.

"So, do you really want to know about the car?"

Let him talk about the car, I told myself; he _loves_ the car; he can barely contain himself around the car; this'll be over before he knows it.

I nodded slowly - steeling myself for a lecture about propulsion technologies, suspensions and carburetors; Tony could discuss – and believe me, he _had_ discussed - car-related matters for _hours_.

"My dad bought it in the Seventies and it was a mess – neglected and left to rot in some garage. But he could see the potential. He knew he could make it something spectacular. Resurrect it."

My breath caught, then escaped in a rush; Tony never really talked about his parents. This was almost completely unprecedented. "Did it run at least?" I asked, being very careful not to spook him.

"Nope."

"He was robbed."

He laughed. "He most certainly was not. This is an exceptional car. It's a1932 Ford and happens to be one of the finest automobiles ever built."

"Still, it doesn't actually _run_."

"It doesn't need to run," he said peevishly. "It just needs to _be_."

I'd known that, of course. I'd always known it, just like he'd always known that I'd known it. We'd just never discussed it.

But it seemed that that was about to change.

"Are you ever going to finish it?"

"I'm in no hurry."

"Sure, what's another thirty years?"

"Exactly. It's not the destination, it's the journey."

I found myself nodding slowly, losing myself in his luminous eyes.

"Besides, unfinished masterpieces are a longstanding tradition among artists."

"So you're an artist now?" I asked peevishly, even though I had always thought that he was_._

"Schubert had his 'Unfinished Symphony,'" he continued, ignoring the taunt.

"How do you know about Schubert?" I questioned. "Black Sabbath didn't do a cover."

"I know lots of things you don't know I know, Pep," he smirked. "For example, I know that Tolkien never finished _The Silmarillion_; his son and another author finished it years later."

"Why would I know that?" I asked. "I actually have a life."

He snorted derisively.

"You're a total geek, Tony," I parried.

"No, I'm rich, which means that I'm an eccentric genius with a keen interest in literature."

It was my turn to snort.

He stretched and wriggled his body. It was distracting.

"Orson Welles left behind lots of unfinished films," I blurted out.

His eyes widened comically.

"What?" I demanded. "I'm a hardworking PA with a keen interest in classic cinema."

"I thought you liked action movies."

"No, you like action movies and you like to have company when you watch them."

He stared at me for a minute, his face softening alarmingly. "We can watch movies you like once in a while," he said finally.

I felt the smile bloom; I couldn't have prevented it, even if I had wanted to. "That'd be good." I shifted closer to him, the bare skin of my arms squeaking against the metal and paint.

"So, tell me more about your baby."

"The Stark 1932 Ford Hot Rod?" he asked, shifting infinitesimally closer.

"Tony Stark's unfinished masterpiece."

"_Howard _Stark's unfinished masterpiece," he said softly, so softly that if I'd been even an inch further from him, I never would've heard it.

But I did hear him and I wanted him to know it. "How many hours did you two spend working on it?"

"More than I can count. My mom would have to drag us out of the garage to eat and sleep."

"Sounds familiar."

He gave me his crinkly grin – the same expression he'd had on his face the day he hired me.

"You're never going to finish this car, are you?" I asked gently.

He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them. "I hate when you do that, you know."

"What? See into your soul?" I asked. It had been meant jokingly, but it didn't come out that way at all.

He stared at me and slid his head closer to mine. "Exactly."

I slid own head closer and stared at his lips. "I think you like it, really," I chided gently.

"Maybe I do," he conceded. He shifted closer again, so close that I could feel his exhalations against my lips. "Pepper," he whispered.

"Yes, Tony?" I whispered back.

"You're devouring me with your eyes."

I sat up quickly, glaring at him, the enchantment that had held me – _compelled_ me – shattered. "I most certainly am not." I smoothed my sweaty palms down the legs of my jeans; he watched the motion raptly. "I've got work to do."

He leaned up on his elbows and looked me up and down. "I want you to know I'm totally instituting Casual Fridays. And Mondays. And Tuesdays. Actually, any day you want to come to work dressed like that works for me. Please write a memo and distribute it to, well, _you._"

I hopped off the car and stomped to the doors.

He was incorrigible, I reminded myself. And unpredictable. Enticing. Spoiled.

But not invincible.

No way. No how.

"Let's go out for lunch," he called. "Somewhere I can show off my luscious assistant."

I ignored the words, and the thoughts they triggered. "We're ordering in," I said firmly, "Vegan. You'll hate it," and left.


	4. Wednesday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

I don't know what Pepper's middle name really is, despite doing research on the subject; if someone knows, please inform me.

I don't own Hewlett-Packard – but my best friend works there, so this is a shout-out to her. However, as this part of my life is a secret, I hope she'll never see it.

**Four of Eight: Wednesday**

Tony was sitting at a conference table, I was sitting against the wall behind him and we were attending the most boring meeting in the history of the world. Hewlett-Packard was doing well, Stark Industries even better, and I'd checked and rechecked the spreadsheets and reports a hundred times.

Only five percent of my brain power was focused on what was going on in the room; the other ninety-five percent was being used to relive the latest To_ny To_ny _Tony_ dream.

Soft and sweet, as if my earlier, innocent dreams had caught fire, I slid on top of him, my fingers digging relentlessly, endlessly, against the leather of the hot rod. I was languid, my body heavy, my movements slow; his hands moved ceaselessly, his lips formed my name, chanting.

_Virginia. Virginia. Pepp-_

My phone, disabled for everything but texts from the person who'd hijacked my subconscious, vibrated and flashed at me.

I started in a full-body spasm that almost sent the phone flying across the room. For a wild moment I was certain that Tony had perfected mind reading technology and was using it to peer into my twisted psyche.

With a profound sense of foreboding, I opened the envelope.

_Bored?_

_Listening_, I replied, ridiculously relieved.

If Tony had created a mind reading machine, I reminded myself, he would've told the entire planet – and some of the adjacent ones – by now.

It was very clear that I was rapidly losing my mind.

_Lying_, he texted back.

_Stop it, Tony_, I chided without refuting his assertion.

_Talk to me about cars again, Potts._

He turned his face slightly towards me: I could see he corner of his mouth; it was quirked up.

I shook with rage and...it was just rage, I told myself. Nothing else. I'd had a _plan_, damn it, and he'd wrecked it with his eyes and hair and sensitivity and stories about his dad.

And now he was being insufferable.

I dropped my head and texted him back. _PAY ATTENTION!_

His head jerked quickly from left to right.

No.

Seconds later another text arrived. _Yelling is impolite, Miss Potts._

I bit back a sigh. He was bored as well as insufferable and, therefore, he was going to pester me mercilessly.

_Listen to the meeting, _I prompted, with absolutely no hope that he would.

_Why? You're here. You'll tell me if I miss something important._

Most days that would have been true - however, I was not experiencing one of them.

_It's rude not to pay attention_.

_I _never_ pay attention._

He was right, of course. Everyone in the room was used to Tony and his little wandering fugues, his building models out of pens and tape in the midst of meetings, his texting me for mundane information that just wouldn't stick among his higher-level thoughts, his leaving his chair to consult with me.

_This is a very important meeting._ I sent back immediately, even though it really wasn't.

_You're lying again, Potts. I'm shocked._

I didn't deign to respond to him.

I was drifting again when he sent the next volley.

_What're you doing?_

_Attending a meeting. What are you doing?_

_I'm trying to pay attention, really. It's just that you're very distracting today._

You _started texting me with banalities,_ I pointed out.

_Oh big word, Potts. That's sexy._

I stared at the screen for several seconds in shock, heat coursing through me. He'd just stepped up the game.

Again.

I typed several responses, immediately deleting each one.

I thought about not sending one at all.

Then I remembered that I had a man's willpower to decimate, my unruly hormones to discipline and shoes to win.

I finally gave in and typed, _I know scores of multi-syllable words, Tony._

I hit send and waited; I couldn't feel my legs.

His head snapped up and he turned to look at me sharply. I smiled innocently. His eyebrows went up and he turned back to the table. It took him a full three minutes to send a response. _Are you flirting with me during a Very Important Meeting, Miss Potts?_

I typed quickly and hit send. _Do you _want_ me to flirt with you during a Very Important Meeting, Mr. Stark?_

This response took four minutes. _Oh, please do._

I stared at the screen for a long time and wondered, yet again, how I always seemed to get myself into untenable situations with Anthony Stark.

I'd never sexted before. I'd never sexted during a meeting before. I'd never sexted with my _boss_ during a meeting before.

My mind raced furiously and white noise filled my ears. I didn't know how to do this - couldn't remember the last time I'd had someone other than Tony flirt with me.

I almost gave up, almost conceded to his superiority in all things enticing and beguiling, until, in a flash of divine inspiration, a single word burst across my consciousness:_ lingerie_. Men liked to read about lingerie – they liked to hear about it, look at it, touch it.

It didn't matter that I was wearing decidedly unsexy and completely mismatched cotton underwear, he wasn't going to see them today anyway.

Or ever. He wasn't going to _ever _see my underwear.

With the confidence that comes from exercising the power of femininity on an unsuspecting male, I typed furiously: _Would it interest you to know that I'm wearing lacy black underwear?_ I pressed send before I could talk myself out of it.

His head tipped down and I watched in proud amazement as color bled across the back of his neck; I took that to mean that yes, yes he _was_ interested to know that.

The Director of Finance asked Tony a question, and I was pleased to hear him stammer a moment before answering. The meeting continued along and I waited, both fearful and excited, for Tony's response.

When it arrived, it was pretty much what I had anticipated. _Please describe in more detail. And use lots of big words. I like big words._

I tried to remember some of the more lurid descriptions in the latest Victoria's Secret catalog - the one that was sitting on my coffee table buried under a stack of tabloids (it always paid to know all the things Tony didn't bother to tell me about his extracurricular activities – even though there had been an astounding lack of the same for six months) with the pages dog-eared and lingerie circled with red marker.

_From the Victoria's Secret Angels collection._ I knew he'd know exactly what that was; at one point in his life, Tony had been an ardent supporter of Victoria's Secret; I sincerely believed that he'd kept the company afloat for close to a decade before Afghanistan.

I didn't bother to wait for him to text me back. I was in completely in charge now. _Satin, demi-cup, designed to cradle and caress my curves. Exceedingly lacy. Extraordinarily black._

He shifted in his seat and his shoulders tensed. _Please continue._

My next text took no thought whatsoever. An adolescence spent reading _Cosmo_ under the covers had prepared me. _A garter belt, of course._

He rolled his head around and stretched his arms out before he typed his response.

_Of course._

_It matches the bra perfectly. Satin and lace._

_Can't leave the house without matching._

_Certainly not. And stockings, of course. Suspended from the belt itself. Very silky and sleek against my legs._

He cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair and waited. I waited.

I knew what he wanted to know and I knew what I was going to say.

His next text was merely an ampersand and a question mark.

I'd reduced him to symbols.

_And?_ I typed, trying to imbue the word with innocent confusion. _There's nothing else to describe._

He was on his feet the instant he finished reading the text. I sat frozen in my seat.

He wouldn't, I thought. He would not lose this bet in front of witnesses.

Then I realized that he most certainly would.

Fifteen of Stark Industries' most important employees and ten of Hewlett-Packard's looked at Tony, then at me – no doubt trying to discern if he'd finally lost his mind.

I smiled at them encouragingly and prayed that I wasn't misleading them.

"I need to confer with Miss Potts on a very important matter," Tony said finally.

In the five seconds it took for Tony to cross to where I was sitting, I sat straighter and tried to calm and focus my thoughts, stop my legs from shaking, and slow my breathing.

I was minimally successful on all counts.

He stood in front of me for a moment before moving to one side and very carefully putting one palm on the back of my chair, far enough from my shoulder to abstain from contact, but close enough for me to feel the radiant heat of it - of him. He leaned forward, his lips almost brushing the sensitive shell of my ear, and whispered, "What intriguing depths you have, Virginia Marie Potts."

I pulled my head back so I could meet his gaze directly. I did not ask him how he knew my middle name. I did not ask him how it was he smelled so very good. Instead, I smiled serenely and said, "That's absolutely correct, Mr. Stark."

Several emotions flickered across his face, each one more heart stopping than the last, before he blinked and cocky Tony masked everything else. He leaned forward again and whispered, the heat of his breath washing over my ear. "How about we get the hell out of here?"

I held back the shiver of arousal and reminded myself of the many, _many_ reasons why that would be a very bad idea. Tipping my head back and staring directly into his liquid eyes, I responded, "I believe that would be highly inadvisable, Mr. Stark."

He held my eyes for a long moment – so long that I was sure everyone in the room knew exactly what was going on – then he leaned forward once more and whispered, "Just remember, your lips may say no, but your eyes say yes."

I jerked my head back and rolled those very same eyes at him.

He grinned lopsidedly, and loped back to his seat. "Go on," he said to the head of Finance, waving his hand and leaning so far back in his chair that I hoped he'd tip back onto his stupendously swollen head.

He stayed upright, however, and the droning started again. I sat very straight and focused on every word being spoken; I was, finally, the very picture of professionalism.

Five minutes later he texted me again. When I opened it, it was a picture of my pumps, obviously cut and pasted from the Chanel website. Underneath the picture he'd written _say goodbye to your little friends._

I sniffed, loud enough for him to hear – I could see his shoulders twitch in response – and wrote, _I'll be scheduling you five meetings a day for the next month, Mr. Stark. And I'll be wearing those shoes every time I do it._

Everyone heard him chortle.


	5. Thursday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

**Five of Eight: Thursday**

I surfaced from the dream gasping, my body tense and shaking. The swimming pool had been involved. And oil. We'd defiled an Iron Man beach towel while Tony whispered dark and dirty suggestions in my ears.

This was becoming a problem.

And not just because I'd never again be able to sit on the deck chairs without fear of spontaneously combusting from the memory of my unconscious mind having us use them in ways not originally intended by their manufacturer.

Three more days, I reminded myself. Three more days and I would have my equilibrium back; I'd have my life and dreams and nights back.

Probably.

I brought him - to his complete delight - breakfast from McDonald's, made fifteen phone calls, had Jarvis remind him to get dressed, sent him off for meetings with Rhodey and R&D, packed his suitcase, hid in my office, found myself staring at the pool.

A very big problem, indeed.

He arrived home, a bit rumpled and grinning like a ten-year-old, while I was in the midst of a conference call with some particularly annoying and officious representatives of UNESCO. He'd quickly retreated from my office at the look on my face and the French pouring out of my mouth.

An hour later he'd sent me an email asking me if I'd started a war with France.

I sent him one back asking what he wanted for dinner.

I brought him his pizza at five-thirty. The shop was quiet and dim; for a moment, I couldn't make him out in the gloom. And then he spoke. "Thanks for the pizza."

I jumped slightly; every cell in my body reacted to the huskiness of his voice.

He was sitting at one of the work stations, spinning a ridiculously long Phillips-head screwdriver in his fingers.

"You really need to eat a salad, Tony," I chided gently, putting the pizza near him.

He looked at it for a long moment. "Where's your dinner?"

"I need to go home and pack."

His eyes searched mine. "You're leaving? You never leave this early."

"Paris, suitcases, is this ringing any bells?"

He leaned back in his chair and stared at me fixedly, the screwdriver dancing between his long fingers. I watched it flash in the low light.

After several seconds of contemplative silence, he suddenly leaned forward and pointed the tool at me. "You've been avoiding me, Potts."

"I've been doing no such thing," I said briskly and asked myself when I'd started lying so consistently.

"Really? So I've just imagined that you've been hiding in your office all day?" he asked, poking the tool towards me more forcefully.

I stepped forward, and grabbed it out of his hands; I put it on a table beside me. "We leave for Paris tomorrow. I've had _stuff _to do. Besides, you and Rhodey were having your bonding time and you and the R&D guys were doubtless figuring out ways to actually develop transporter technology like in _Star Wars_-."

"_Star _Trek," he said.

"I doubt you even noticed I wasn't there."

"Of course I noticed," he said softly.

My breath caught in my throat and I remembered the slick heat of him – the dream him. I took a halting step forward; one more and I would be toe-to-toe with him.

A problem of immeasurable enormity.

"No one was there telling me to focus on actual work or questioning my life choices," he continued, leaning back in his chair.

I crossed my arms and glared at him.

"I understand why you would be avoiding me," he said, completely uncowed by my ire. "I'm irresistible. I can only imagine how hard this no touching-no kissing thing must be for you. Just get it over with, Pep. Just a little kiss." He tipped his head up at me.

His attitude was an order of magnitude better than a cold shower.

I found myself wanting to poke him. Repeatedly. With something sharp and pointy and painful. My finger would've served in the past, but now…I cast my eyes around the workshop, desperate to find something, any…the oversized screwdriver.

I scooped it up and poked his chest, right above the reactor and a little harder than I had originally intended. It felt rather good. "You are completely resistible, Stark. I don't have any problems keeping my hands and lips off of you. I've been doing it for _years._"

"I've noticed."

I blinked stupidly at him, frozen with my hand on the handle of the screwdriver and the point of it pressed against his body.

He smirked, staring at the screwdriver. "Didn't know you had a tool fetish, Potts. You could've told me years ago. We could've had some fun with the power drill."

"I don't have a tool fetish," I pointed out. "You're the one with the workshop that's like some dominatrix's dungeon."

"How do you know about dominatrices and dungeons?" he questioned, his eyes lighting up and his tone gleeful.

"I've worked for you for years and years," I shot back.

"I'm not into that stuff and you know it."

"And yet you know that the plural of dominatrix is dominatrices."

"I'm very well read." He pressed forward gently, pressing the point against his skin more tightly. "You know, if you're into metal, I have a whole suit I could put on – you could crawl all ov- ."

I poked him harder; I wondered if his skin was turning slightly red from the abuse.

This thought led to thoughts of him, bare from the waist up – arms and muscles and glowing disc.

"Wow, Pepper. I kind of like this side of you," he said, and I started out of the vision.

"This isn't a side of me," I said, even as my hand transferred the tip from his chest to the bone that skimmed the neckline of his tank top. I watched it raptly, wondering idly how the movement had happened.

"I think it is," he said.

I transferred my gaze from his collarbone to his face. He'd tipped his head down and was staring at the metal caress his skin.

I wanted to see his eyes, wanted him to see my face.

I fell into the compulsion – unable to resist or fight a second longer – and brought the screwdriver to rest lightly under his chin. Carefully, but with irresistible force, I pressed upwards, bringing his face back up; his eyes glittered and widened and my hand tightened on the handle.

"That's kind of hot," he murmured, leaning his head back – offering me the long line of his throat.

Gently, unblinkingly, I complied with his unspoken request and traced his throat, his pectoral muscles, the arc reactor, his clavicle, his shoulders, his arms, caught in the thought of following the lines of his skin with my fingers.

When I finally looked away from the journey of the metal, it was to find his carotid artery fluttering wildly, his eyes languidly fixed on my face, his skin flushed.

I bit my lip in response.

He moaned a little, and it was a small sound – almost like he'd tried to swallow it back; my hand began to shake, the screwdriver jerked, scratching the skin of his bicep slightly.

He breathed out sharply and grabbed the tool in one strong hand and I could feel the circuit close, the jolt of the charged connection. His eyes widened briefly, full of surprise he couldn't hide, and I knew he felt it too.

"Pep," he said, his eyes luminous, aroused.

Wholly unprepared for the unadulterated power of that look, my body flooded with adrenaline and my fight or flight instinct kicked in. I wanted my skin on his, wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted in my entire life; I wanted to run from the house, faster than any human being had ever run from anything in the history of the planet.

And neither of the desires had anything to do with Chanel shoes.

My grip went slack and I dropped the handle; he held the shaft like a lifeline.

I could hear my voice in dreams, hoarsely saying his name over and over while his voice, transformed, made a prayer of my name.

Tony, Tony, Tony. _Tony. PepperVirginiaPepper._

I wondered if my eyes reflected the images in my head, wondered if he could see them.

I wondered if he dreamed, too.

He dropped the screwdriver and it clanged to the floor.

I blinked at the sound – so discordant with the music of the lover's exhortations in my mind – and realized where I was and who I was with. I was already backing away from him when I took a huge breath and another one. "Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" My voice was shaking and I had no idea to stop it.

"I – that is – wh-?" he stammered – his eyes dazed, his skin flushed - before taking his own huge breath and moving his fingers to idly caress the arc reactor.

I realized that it was something he did to soothe himself; I noted the new behavior, added it to my Tony compendium and did the one thing that always soothed me: "Will that be all Mr. Stark?" I said again and waited for him to complete the ritual, the script.

He didn't. His eyebrows drew together.

Into the breach, before he said something stupid that neither of us was quite ready for or would only serve to thoroughly piss me off, I said, "Happy is picking you up at 9:30. The plane leaves at 10. AM. Sharp." I was happy to hear that my voice was much less shaky.

"It's my plane."

"I am well aware of that, but you don't own UNESCO and the Director-General is not your employee. We are going to show him the utmost respect and courtesy," I pointed out, falling back into my usual persona with unmitigated relief.

He turned back towards the pizza box, moving it with shaking hands – pulling it on the work station. He turned away from me for a moment, regaining his composure – leaving me to regain my own. "Am I packed?" he asked.

"Of course you're packed."

"I'll be there," Tony said; he turned towards me again, all heat faded from his eyes – he was the old Tony again, the one I knew how to deal with. I was almost giddy with relief and dissipating adrenaline.

"On time," I prompted.

"I'll be there early."

I raised my eyebrows at him incredulously.

"I'll do it, Potts, just to see your face."

"I look forward to that, Mr. Stark."

He grinned his best crinkly grin and ran his fingers through his hair; an unbelievable hunger coursed through my body. It was a matter of three steps, maybe four, to go to him – to ease my aching body down onto his and pull at that hair until he kissed me, until I made him scream my name. Just four steps to make him see that I wanted those hands – the ones that worked wonders out of metal – to learn me, twist me, recreate me.

I'd taken one halting step towards him before I caught myself. I desperately needed to go home.

"Will that be all, Mr. Stark?" I asked.

Please, I prayed, please say what you're supposed to say, Tony.

"That will be all, Miss Potts."

"Good night," I said, turning and clacking my way unsteadily towards the doors.

"You have a good night, too," he called out.

What were the odds? Really?


	6. Friday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

I know that the Stark jet looks different in the movies, but I needed my version to look like this.

**Six of Eight: Friday**

I had two dreams the night before we left for Paris.

The first was soft and sweet: Tony and I caught in gentle caresses and tender kisses, sighing as we fell together. The second was liquid: hot and slick; movement and sweat; I could smell him, feel him move in me and I responded with a fervor to match his. _Mine, _he said; _yours_, I agreed.

I woke from each of them gasping and shuddering, grinding out his name as my body shook.

After the second one, I refused to fall back asleep.

I was sleep-deprived and barely functioning when I arrived at the tarmac at 9:45. Tony was there, bouncing with boundless energy and clasping two green and white paper cups with brown sleeves in his hands.

He looked like _himself_, not the aroused, almost-dangerous man of the twilight workshop – but that didn't seem to matter because my heart lurched and opened wide anyway and I had to finally accept that I was in very deep trouble.

"You're late, Potts!" he yelled as I emerged from the car, striding over to me in long, quick steps.

I looked down at my watch. "Not at all, Mr. Stark; in fact, I'm fifteen minutes early."

"And I was even earlier. I want you to store this moment in your brain, Pepper." He thrust a cup at me, smiling the rare and very real Tony smile that he saved for his parents and discoveries and me. "Proof that Tony Stark has changed."

"I knew that already," I said, realizing as I said it that it was _true._

His face brightened. "Good. How was the rest of your night?"

"Fine."

He raised a single glossy eyebrow and smiled. "Glad to hear it." Then he was turning from me and bounding up the stairs, announcing, "Wheels up," as he went.

And that, I thought, was _that_. We weren't going to talk about what had happened – what almost happened, could've happened.

I wasn't sure if I was angry or relieved. I finally decided that I was vaguely unsettled.

"Hey!" I blinked and followed the voice. Tony was standing in the door, looking at me oddly. "We're waiting on_ you_, Potts."

"Fabulous," I muttered to myself and followed him.

By the time I joined him, he'd already settled on one of the couches, arms stretched across the back and legs akimbo; I slid onto the couch opposite of his and said a prayer of thanksgiving for the table between us.

"Hot towel, Mr. Stark? Miss Potts?"

I stared, and stared again. The flight attendant was fifty if she was a day, pretty but just shy of matronly, and she was dressed appropriately, not in the Playboy version of a flight attendant's uniform that used to be de rigueur on Tony's plane.

"Thanks, Julie." Tony grabbed the towel.

I stared.

Julie pushed the tray closer to me, then tonged the towel onto my hands.

The look she gave Tony clearly communicated that she'd just realized that _he_ wasn't the crazy one.

I continued staring after her as she left the cabin for the galley. Then I stared at Tony. "When was the flight crew replaced?"

He widened his extraordinary eyes trying – and failing – to look innocent. "Weeks ago, Pepper. I sent you a memo."

"No, you didn-. You did this on your own?" The world tipped around me and it had nothing to do with the fact that we were accelerating down the runway and hurtling into the air.

"I do have _some_ skills," he said, sounding very hurt by my insinuation.

"And the twenty year-old bikini models?"

"Off bikini-modeling, most likely."

"Why?" I asked, my voice surprisingly squeaky.

He frowned, "Because they're bikini models. It's what they _do._"

"No, why did you replace them?"

"Why do you think?" he countered, and downed the rest of his Starbucks.

"I don't know why you do half the things you do," I said, even though I had developed several theories, all of them unthinkable.

He tilted his head and looked at me appraisingly. "Don't you, Pepper?"

"No," I lied and immediately turned my attention to my BlackBerry, thankful once again for the super technology that enabled me to use it practically anywhere on– or suspended above – the planet and, therefore, permitted me to avoid meeting Tony's eyes.

I could feel his gaze on me for several minutes before he stood and moved to the couch in front of the TV. Within seconds the sounds of Call of Duty filled the space.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" he asked.

I kept my head down, kept my fingers moving. "I'm used to explosions and robots running amuck."

"There aren't _robots_ in this game, Potts," he huffed, and left me alone for a total of ninety minutes - ninety calming minutes, despite the constant gunfire and yelling and low curses erupting from ten feet away – before he was back, sitting across from me.

"Sometimes, I think you like that thing more than you like me," he prompted.

I glanced at him. He was sitting with his arms across his chest, glaring at the PDA in my hands and looking very put-upon.

"Tony, this thing organizes your life and, therefore, organizes mine."

"No, _you _organize my life. You also color it and light it up."

"That's not what you say when I make you do things you don't want to do."

"It's because of what those things are, Potts. I can think of five things I'd very much like you to _make_ me do," he said, widening his legs and resting his hands on his thighs.

"I don't want to know," I said, keeping my eyes deliberately fixed on his shoulder.

"I'll tell you anyway. Would you like the list in alphabetical or preferential order?"

"I don't want the list."

"But I'll give it to you anyway. Do you want me to text it to you?" He fumbled for his phone and started typing.

"I'll block you."

"I could override the block."

"But you wouldn't do that," I said sweetly.

He huffed and sat back. "Seriously, Virginia, what's the allure of the BlackBerry?"

"It has several advantages, the most important of which are that I can both mute it and turn it off."

"Huh."

"It does what it's told to do," I continued, warming to the topic. "It doesn't backtalk and it never, ever flies off into danger without telling me."

"I don't do that anymore," he protested. "I _always_ tell you when I'm going to fly off into danger."

"It doesn't fly off into danger at all."

"In my defense, it's a PDA and I'm a superhero, so I _have_ to fly off into danger from time-to-time."

"Advantage BlackBerry," I said crisply.

His eyes caught mine, warming and melting in that infuriating, intoxicating way of his. "You don't like it when I fly off."

"No, I do not."

He smiled broadly, his eyes brightening considerably. I could almost hear the gears clicking and whirring in his head. Then he blinked and the moment was over. He slid down into his seat and looked at me from beneath lowered lids. He was trying to be sultry. And he was succeeding.

"I just realized another thing you must like about that." He waved dismissively at the PDA clutched tightly in my hand. I kept my expression neutral. "It's firm, and kind of big."

I snorted before I could stop myself.

Encouraged, he continued. "Do you like it when it's on vibrate?"

"I do not use my BlackBerry as a sex toy," I said. In the next instant I wished that I had kept my big mouth shut.

"Do you use other things as sex toys? Do you use sex toys as sex toys, Pepper?"

"We're not having this discussion," I said, raking my eyes over his languid form before I could stop myself.

"Why not? I'd really like to have this discussion – almost as much I'd like to have another discussion about your underwear. What color is it today?"

"You know I'm not going to answer that."

"You used to be much more fun."

"I don't think I was."

"I distinctly remember that you were."

"I think you're confusing me with another of your long-suffering PA's."

"I don't remember any of the other ones, Pepper - just you."

I snapped my eyes to his face and held his gaze. My brain got very spinny and my legs very watery.

"Potts, come over here and cuddle with me," he prompted, his voice low and enticing.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I'm comfy."

"Well, I'm comfy, too. You come over here and cuddle with _me._"

He pressed his back into his seat and gave me his very best heavy-lidded gaze. "I hate meetings."

"And I love those shoes."

He shrugged, "So, no cuddling?" He looked disappointed; I realized with a start that it was only partially an affectation.

"No cuddling," I confirmed.

He gave a half-smile, then clapped his hands. "I'm hungry, are you hungry? I'm going to find out about lunch."

He leapt to his feet gracefully and headed towards the galley; I stared at the wall and, yet again, tried to figure out what was happening and why I was suddenly unable to gain any sense of internal equilibrium.

I was somewhat more composed before he returned carrying two glasses. The ice chinked against the sides and out of a habit born of the years when it wouldn't have been something so innocuous, I stared at it for several seconds before I realized, slowly and in starts, that it was _water._

He put my glass on the table in front of me, then settled back in his seat.

Julie was close behind him, carrying a tray with silverware, napkins, bread and two bowls filled with what looked alarmingly like salad.

She put one in front of me and the other in front of Tony; it _was_ salad.

"Thanks, Julie," he said, smiling at her. "I think I'm ready for the other item now."

"Certainly, sir."

"What item, Tony?" I questioned, my stomach clenching.

"Patience, Potts," Tony chided, tucking into his salad – an honest to God salad with real vegetables and grilled chicken and no cheese or nitrate-ridden lunchmeat to be seen.

"No pizza? No cheeseburgers?" I asked, more churlishly than I'd intended to. I blamed it on the complete disorientation I was experiencing.

"Pizza and cheeseburgers are bad for you. How do you not know that?"

"How _do you_ know that?"

He winked at me and I forgot to breathe; mercifully, Julie returned with a bunch of flowers. She handed them to Tony and smiled knowingly at me.

The second she disappeared, Tony put down his fork and handed the bouquet to me. "These are for you."

I took them even though my hands were numb. "Thank you," I said automatically.

"Camellias," he said. "Like the ones on your shoes, right?"

"The shoes I'm not going to win," I said - not sure if I was asking or telling him.

"You're doing pretty well so far, Potts. I gotta give you credit, I couldn't have resisted me." He toasted me with his water.

I fumbled for my glass and raised it in response.

"Of course, you're pretty irresistible yourself, you know. I gotta say that I'm pretty damn proud of myself, too" he continued.

I nodded stupidly, utterly unable to form any kind of response.

He took a sip of water, then deposited the glass back on the table. "So, I was thinking after lunch we could watch a movie. _The Princess Bride? Pirates of the Caribbean?_" He dropped his eyes and smirked, "Something from the Jenna Jameson collection?"

"_The Princess Bride_," I said hastily, my ability to reason, think and speak miraculously restored without his eyes caught up in mine.

"You got it, Pep," he grinned, turning to his lunch with single-minded focus.

My eyes snagged on the flowers and, in that moment, I finally came to terms with the fact that Tony was _wooing_ me.

And that it was working.


	7. Saturday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

I borrowed the line about Pepper being "out-of-control gorgeous" from _Iron Man 2_. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from its usage.

**Seven of Eight: Saturday**

In my bed in my room in Tony's Parisian apartment, I dreamt that he and I made love among flowers – our bodies crushing them, releasing their heavy perfumes, covering us with a blanket of scent.

In the morning, I remembered bits of it – the brush of camellias, his fingers in my hair, my body undulating against his, the scent of roses – but they faded into the extraordinary busyness of the day; I didn't have time to think on dreams or my boss or the fact that he was, almost certainly, courting me in his own unique, oblique way or that I was just fine with it all – I had tasks to complete and people to consult with and a genius billionaire to get to an international science conference.

And, for once, it all went smoothly.

Tony was compliant – up and dressed before I had to prompt him, despite the time change; sober and focused and _prepared._

The protesters at UNESCO (and who knew what they were actually protesting – their signs showed an appalling lack of cohesion) had been transformed into red-carpet groupies when Tony Stark, Iron Man himself, showed up.

Tony had, of course, completely won over the audience at the conference. He'd received a standing ovation and it'd taken us almost two hours to leave the lecture hall.

And, through it all, he had been incandescent, brilliant, funny and utterly disarming; Tony – sober, drunk, half-drunk, or half-broken and fully at-sea like he'd been when he'd come home - was, quite simply, spellbinding.

Three hours into the reception following his speech, he'd planted himself in front of me and demanded to leave, to "go home," to "hang out."

So, on Saturday, at 10 PM Paris time and 1 PM Malibu time, Tony was striding about the apartment on secret business and I was sitting on the balcony with my self-control rapidly eroding and feeling vaguely as if I was waiting for a date to begin.

"Potts? Where'd you put the corkscrew?"

I turned towards where he stood, framed in the French doors and wearing the hell out of a long-sleeved t-shirt and tight jeans.

It was patently unfair that he was so good-looking.

"Why would I know where the corkscrew is?" I asked pointedly. "I wasn't the one who killed a case of wine the last time we were here. Not that I'm complaining, mind you - having you and Rhodey sleeping on the plane was lovely. It was the most peaceful eleven and a half hours I've had in the last decade."

He narrowed his eyes at me even as he grinned. "Rhodey made me do it."

"He's a bad influence on you."

"He really is, you know," he mumbled. "I don't think you should let me hang out with him anymore."

"I'll take it under advisement," I said.

"Good. You know I need you to protect me from people that would lead me astray," he said ringingly as he went back inside.

"I try my best," I sighed.

I could hear him mumbling, "I think we were playing video games," to himself as his voice and footsteps faded away; obviously, he hadn't heard me.

I tucked my feet up under me and looked out over the skyline. My supposition had been correct: even though he hadn't actually asked me on a date – asking just wasn't a part of Tony's DNA; he just _did_ things – it seemed as if we were on one.

It was an exciting idea.

"Right where I left it," Tony announced as he joined me. He was carrying an open bottle of red wine and glasses.

"And where was that?"

"Under the couch in the game room," he responded. "Right next to Rhodey's socks and my missing cufflink." He set the wine and glasses on the low table in front of me and soap-and-detergent-and-Tony-scented air washed over me. I could see that his hair was still damp from the shower. "I think I need to speak to the maid."

I inhaled deeply, not even bothering to hide it. He straightened and gifted me with a blazing smile, then turned on his heel and went back inside.

"Where are you going?" I demanded; I wanted him and his delicious scent to be outside with me.

"I'm not done yet," he said.

I sighed and leaned my head back against the chair and stared at the wine.

"I really wanted those shoes," I muttered to the bottle.

It sat there silently mocking me with all of its Gallic contemptuousness.

Tony returned, this time carrying a platter of fruit and cheese – Brie, grapes, melon, Gruyere, apples, pears, cheddar, Havarti, but, "No strawberries," I mumbled

"You're allergic," he said, as if reminding me. He poured two glasses of wine, handed one to me, and dropped into the chair next to mine clutching the other.

I blinked at him.

"I _do_ pay attention."

The thought of being the focus of his attention made my body go hot and cold simultaneously.

"Cheese?" he promoted, pushing the plate towards me, "Fruit?"

I took a slice of melon and looked at it for several seconds before I remembered that I was supposed to eat it.

Tony was on his third piece of fruit and second piece of cheese (melon, grape, grape, Havarti and cheddar) before I was able to do more than chew slowly.

"How did you do all this without me?" I asked after I swallowed.

He smirked. "I have people."

"Tony, _I'm_ your people."

He leaned forward, halving the distance between us. "No, Virginia, you're my _person_."

My heart started to race, my body started to melt and I grabbed my glass of wine and downed it in three huge gulps; I was desperately in need of the aid of an intoxicant that _wasn't_ Tony Stark.

His eyes widened and he let out a surprised, "Whoa."

I put the glass on the table, leaned forward in my chair – halving yet again the space between him and me - and said, "Are you wooing me Tony?"

He leaned back into his chair, resting his elbows and forearms against his thighs. He met my gaze calmly, levelly. "Do you want me to be wooing you?"

"Answer the question with an actual answer, please. Are you wooing me?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes. How do you feel about that?"

"What about the bet?"

"Part of the wooing."

I shook my head. "I don't think you understand the concept of wooing."

"Don't I?" he asked; his eyes were twinkling and sparkling, and damn it, he knew _just_ what he was doing.

"What about your little speech about our needing to reestablish boundaries?" I demanded, even though I was pretty certain I knew what he was going to say.

"It was a sentence, not a speech."

"Stop arguing semantics and start talking."

"I'd like them to be little different than before," he said quickly. "Maybe expanded a bit – more permeable."

"You want our boundaries to be permeable?" I echoed.

"Very much so."

I drummed my fingers against the arm of the chair. "Why didn't you just _say_ that?"

"Pepper, you're _you _– smart and stubborn and out-of-control gorgeous - and you've known me for a long time, which is a very good thing and a very bad thing. You know me better than anyone on the planet, but you still think me of the person I was before Af-…just before_._ I've changed – not entirely, but in important ways - but whenever I tried to prove to you things were different, that _I_ was different, you shot me down."

"Once. I shot you down once."

"Daily. Sometimes hourly," he contested. "So, I figured that since you wouldn't listen to me, I needed to _show_ you."

"By distracting me?"

"Exactly," he smiled, excited that I understood him. His voice sped up and his words began to bleed together. "You're so balanced and focused that I knew the only way I could make this work was to sweep you off your feet when you were busy thinking about the bet and not about what I was doing."

It was a good plan, I thought, he had been able to knock me completely askew without me even realizing it.

He was still talking. "I needed you to really _see _me."

"I've always seen you, Tony," I said. "_All _of you."

"And? How am I?"

"You're Tony. Nothing more or less."

"Is that a good thing or bad thing?" he asked warily.

"A good thing," I said cautiously.

He beamed.

I stared at him, running the new information through my head, making it fit into the right places.

"Pe-."

I held up a repressive hand. "Give me a minute, please."

He closed his mouth and looked at me expectantly. I could see the tension arching off of him.

I decided that I needed clarification on a few subjects.

"What about the night in the workshop?" I began.

"That? Was not part of the plan – but it was amazing. _You _were amazing. You don't know how close I was to…just how close."

I ignored the frisson of excitement and continued gathering information. "What people?" I asked, more than a little mad at myself that I hadn't bothered to ask him before.

"What?"

"What people said that I devoured you with my eyes?"

He colored a little and said something that sounded maddeningly like "Jarvis" and "Rhodey."

"Did you just say Rhodey and Jarvis?" I demanded.

He nodded sheepishly.

"And did Jarvis _really_ say I devoured you with my eyes?"

"Maybe," he said defiantly.

"Because you programmed him to do so. Okay. Rhodey?"

"Well, he-."

"When he was sober?"

"Not in so many words."

"What words?"

"He may have said that I needed to get my head out of my ass and figure out what I was doing with you."

"And _this_ is what you decided to do."

"I had a plan, damn it! It was a good plan. It _is_ a good plan."

And that was the moment I completely gave in – let myself fall, fly, drown.

Maybe it was his face, or the wine, or the fact that we were in Paris or because it was a _really _good plan – or perhaps it was the combination of it all – but I could feel joy bubble up through my body and erupt in laughter; once it started, I found myself unable to stop. I gave into the feeling, its expression. I doubled over and wrapped my arms around my stomach as the tension rolled out of me.

"Uhm, Pepper?" He was adorably confused, which made my laughter intensify_._ "Are you pissed off?" he asked, though I couldn't fathom why. People didn't usually chortle when they were angry.

I shook my head and tried to focus on him. He looked a little scared and that made me laugh harder; weirdly, it made me want to cry a little, too. Poor Tony. Poor me.

We were stupid.

We'd been playing at seduction when we should've been _talking._

I gulped and laughed harder, unable to stop.

His eyes widened. "You're turning blue."

I shook my head, tears in my eyes, my stomach aching.

"Pepper," he said, slipping out of his chair so he could kneel in front of me. "Virginia. You need to breathe for me."

His eyes were incredibly warm and open, his lips red and delectable and he was so _close_. If I hadn't been laughing, I would've kissed him. I _wanted _to kiss him. It didn't matter that it wasn't midnight - not in Paris and definitely not in California - that it was still very much Saturday. We'd both waited far too long.

Stop laughing, I told myself, stop laughing and you won't have to wait anymore.

I pressed my hands to my legs and gasped in a breath, then another one; I kept gasping in air until the laughter died. Then I smiled at him – really, really smiled at him.

He grabbed my hands and squeezed, his hands incredibly warm and strong, his touch setting my blood on fire; I looked at his hands and pointed out the obvious: "You lose."

"I don't see it that way," he said in the instant before he took my mouth.


	8. Second Sunday

Disclaimers and thanks in Part One.

The response to this fic has completely stunned me. I am touched and happy that so many people seem to have enjoyed it so much.

This is where this fic really earns its strong T rating, folks. Enjoy!

**Eight of Eight: Second Sunday**

Tony was a cuddler. The fact had surprised me momentarily – after all, I'd been escorting his companions from his empty bed for years – before I simply shoved it in beside the other information I'd gathered in Paris: he was skilled, tender, sweet, _big_, inventive, masterful, exceedingly vocal, and particularly enamored with my hair.

And if the new information didn't exactly fit neatly, what did it matter when, in my last moment of lucid thought, I realized that Tony had redecorated his bedroom and that he'd done it for me; while he was catching his breath as I tightened around him; when he called me Pepper and Virginia and, once, Ginny; when his eyes had widened comically as I showed him how strong and dexterous years of typing had made my hands; as he was making very sure the arc reactor didn't hurt me.

When he was so completely and undeniably _present_.

What difference did it make when he'd settled his body around mine and his eyes had drifted closed?

As he cuddled.

As I fell asleep.

As I slept without dreaming.

When I finally pulled myself out of satiated and exhausted unconsciousness, he was still clinging to me: nuzzling against my shoulder, one heavy arm banded across my midsection and pulling me half on top of him, the other somehow wedged against my back, both of his legs squeezing one of mine. Every time I took a deep breath, I could feel the arc reactor nudge the rise of my breast and his hand tighten on the skin over my spine.

I had expected to wake up with him plastered on the other side of the bed – or gone, sleeping in one of the guest rooms; instead, he was all around me; octopus-like.

I tried shifting, both out of a sense of experimentation and out of necessity – it was morning and there were certain things I needed to attend to – and he yanked me closer and made an odd, protesting noise against the skin of my neck.

I poked at his arm. "Tony, I need to get up."

"Five more minutes, Potts," he said mushily. "The meeting can wait."

"We don't have a meeting," I grunted and began the process of wriggling myself out from under his arms and legs. It took far longer than I ever would have expected.

I also didn't expect to feel _bereft_ by the mere action of removing my body from against his.

"Cancel it," he mumbled, snuffling and frowning. "I don't wanna…" He dwindled back into rhythmic breathing.

I shook my head fondly, covered him up and pressed a kiss into the unholy mess of dark curls and waves.

Ten very cleansing minutes later I returned to the bed to find Tony sitting up in bed, sheet and blanket fallen completely away from his extraordinary anatomy.

"Ginny, ca-," he began as he stretched in an alarmingly alluring fashion.

"No," I said.

"No what? I didn't even get to finish asking."

"No to Ginny."

"You liked it last night."

"I was a little _distracted_ last night," I corrected. "Try again."

"Virgie."

"Never."

"Baby."

I shook my head definitively.

"Iron Woman."

"Are you _serious_?"

"It could be worse," he said. "I could call you Iron _Girl_."

"Not if you want to continue breathing."

"Duly noted. Virginia."

"Yes, but not today."

"Pepper."

"Acceptable."

"Thank God. _Pepper_, would you _please_ get back into our bed?"

I caved instantly; within seconds I was kissing the neck of a very sleep-rumpled and gorgeous part-time superhero.

"You're not going to quit, are you?"

"Uhuh," I murmured. "I was thinking of moving somewhat lower."

"Quit working for me," he clarified.

Startled, I stopped exploring his skin and looked up at him. He looked _nervous_.

"Why would I quit?"

"Because, Miss Potts, I've been actively seducing you for the past week."

"I'm okay with that."

"And you're sleeping with your boss."

I choked out a laugh. _I_ had come to terms with that so easily – thought about it and accepted it almost instantaneously - that I was surprised that it bothered him at all.

"Tony, our relationship has been much more than boss and employee for a long time."

"But I still sign your checks."

"No, the computer in Payroll signs my checks. Rita Dempsey runs the computer. The Board approves my salary. Your name is on my checks, that's as far as your involvement goes."

"So you're not going to quit."

"I've invested way too much time and effort into you to quit now." I traced the edge of his chest plate with a nail. "I trust that you'll behave appropriately and won't take advantage of our altered relationship."

"So you're not going to quit and you're going to continue sleeping with me."

"I don't see us getting much _sleep_ for a while, but, yes."

He turned his head and pecked my lips. I leaned forward to extend the pressure, but he angled his body away from mine, a serious look on his face.

"What?" I demanded.

"I want to talk about the rules," he said.

"Rules for what?" I asked, completely unable to follow his train of thought.

"This. Us. Our altered relationship."

"There are going to be rules?"

"Guidelines. For me."

"Guidelines," I echoed. "For you."

"Yes, and here they are: I'm probably going to piss you off ninety-five percent of the time, I'm still going to hate the boring meetings you want me to go to, and I'm going to bring you flowers when I feel like it – which may be a lot."

I stared at him.

"Acceptable?"

"So the guidelines are things you're already doing."

"With flowers."

"With flowers," I repeated.

"So, are they acceptable?"

"Sure," I replied.

He smiled gently and swept an errant curl behind my ear. "There are more."

"More?"

"I'm going to try very hard not to spend days in the shop, I'm never going to cheat on you and I'm going to keep flirting outrageously with you every chance I get."

I gazed at him in amazement. He had put _thought_ into this; however, he was making promises I wasn't entirely sure he was going to be able to keep.

"Those are a lot of guidelines, Tony, and you're not really good with rules," I said gently, trying to communicate my trepidation.

"I will be with these," he said and it sounded like a _vow._

"You're serious."

"About you? Yes."

I proceeded to kiss him senseless for several pleasant moments before he pulled away from my lips.

"I thought we'd stay here today," he suggested.

"By here you mean?" I prompted, my lips grazing the hollow of his throat.

"_Here_, here, Pepper. In bed."

"Uh uh. You owe me shoes. Chanel opens at noon." I craned my head back to look at a clock. "Which gives us twenty minutes for _this._"

"I need at least twenty-one," he murmured into the curve of my shoulder.

"Well you shouldn't have wasted so much time talking then," I teased.

He rolled us over and grinned down at me. "I don't work well under pressure, Potts. You know that."

"Nineteen."

He looked at me for a long moment, then insinuated his hands around my torso - his thumbs at the bottom of my breasts - and his lips against mine. He kissed me, bossily, masterfully. I opened my mouth to him, grabbed him closer. Clung to him.

He broke off the kiss long before I was ready for him to.

"What? Why?" I complained.

"I have something for you," he said, crawling off of me, sliding his skin along mine more than was strictly necessary. "Wait here."

"Ton-."

"You'll like it."

"We've only got fifteen minutes!"

"We'll have plenty of time. I promise," he grinned, then spun and strode away – every etched muscle moving in perfect unison.

We only had ten minutes left by the time he finally returned, his face clean, his hair somewhat tamed and looking indecently good.

"Here." He plopped back on the bed and handed me a familiar black and white box. It was a testament to the staggering beauty of his body that I hadn't even noticed he was carrying it.

"My shoes," I whispered.

"Your shoes."

"My shoes," I said, louder. "When did you get them?"

"The last time we were here." He sounded sheepish.

I looked from the box to his face and back again. "You threw the bet," I said. "You never intended on winning."

"No, I _knew_ that you'd win. You're you, Potts. I'm me. It was a foregone conclusion."

I decided not to tell him how many times I'd almost lost the bet. It was better that way.

I looked down at the box in my lap and replayed Tony's earlier statement. "You've had my shoes for a month," I said, tearing the box open to make sure that they were in one piece.

Tony was not known for taking care of his shoes. Or clothes. Or house. Or cars. Or himself.

"Where did you keep them?" I demanded even as I pulled them out of the box and examined them. Every flower and bead was in place and accounted for.

"In a hermetically sealed vault in my bomb shelter. Jarvis constantly monitored the CO2 and oxygen levels and adjusted them automatically as needed."

"Really?"

"No. They're shoes, Pepper, not original, still-in-the-box Stars Wars figures."

I wrinkled my nose at him and continued to examine my shoes.

"You could've just bought them," he said. "You could've bought dozens of pairs."

"I'm an _accountant_," I reminded him.

He shook his head helplessly.

"How can you not under-? They're frivolous, Tony."

"Frivolous?"

"It means not serious in att-."

"I know what it means, I just don't understand what it means in context to _you."_

"I can't wear these to work. I don't have a social life…."

He cleared his throat.

"Didn't have a social life. I couldn't justify buying them."

"You need to be better to yourself," he said.

I tipped my head and regarded him steadily, doubt filling my eyes.

"I'll teach you how." He clapped his hands together. "God, I'm going to be _such_ a good influence on you."

"That's a frightening thought," I grinned.

"It shouldn't be," he huffed, pressing his hand on top of mine; together our hands slid along the leather and organza.

"I like Courtship Tony," I whispered.

"Sounds like an action figure," he grumbled, smiling.

My Tony, I thought. Wholly and only _my _Tony.

I put the shoes back in the box so I could grab his head and could pull him into a deep kiss; seconds later, I commenced trying to push him back onto the bed. He pushed me back upright. I pushed harder, deepening the kiss even more and reaching for important body parts. He took me by my forearms and carefully pushed me off of his body.

I blinked at him; he looked pointedly at the box.

"Don't you want to try them on?"

"Now?" We were naked and on a bed and…oh.

I took out the shoes, sighing a little as my fingers slid across the beading.

"May I?" Tony was holding his hand out towards me.

I gingerly handed him the left. His hands, calloused and big and warm, circled my ankle, guiding my foot to his knee; he slid the shoe on with all of the delicacy of a neurosurgeon.

It was incredibly sexy.

"The other one," he prompted; I surfaced from my hormonal haze and handed him the right. He ran his fingers gently across the arch of my foot, then slid the shoe on, circling his fingers around my ankle when he was done.

"Oh."

His head snapped up, eyes blazing. "How do they feel?"

"Good," I stammered.

"So, let's see." His tone was brisk and entirely at odds with his heated expression.

I got out of bed; they fit perfectly and felt wonderful.

Tony let out a low groan; I looked at him. He was staring fixedly at me, his eyes blown black with arousal.

"The shoes are as much for you as they are for me, aren't they?" I demanded.

"Maybe."

I tapped my foot and stared him down.

"Maybe I've looked at them and thought about you modeling them for me."

I quirked an eyebrow.

"While naked," he admitted.

"And now I am."

"You most certainly are."

I smiled warmly and leaned forward. He took the hint and kissed me - so thoroughly that my head started to spin and my knees went watery. Then he put his clever hands on my skin.

I was ten seconds away from losing my mind entirely; I needed to secure the shoes before we went any further.

I pulled away from his busy lips and hands - taking myself a safe distance from him so I could balance on one leg and bend the other back and up. I was reaching for my left shoe when Tony cleared his throat. I stopped in mid-motion and stared at him silently.

"As completely unbelievable as it is watching you do _that_, I was thinking…," he dwindled, his eyes heating.

Understanding jolted through me – my Tony was kinky.

Then again, I was pretty sure he always had been.

"You want me to leave them on," I finished, dropping my foot back to the floor. "You want me to leave my _brand new shoes_ on." My tone was designed to communicate the gravity of what he was asking of me.

His eyes widened and he practically panted out his, "Yeah."

My tone, obviously, had not been eloquent enough.

"I love these shoes, Tony."

"I do, too."

"I want them in one piece."

"They will be," he promised.

"You're completely turned on right now, aren't you?"

"God, yes. I don't think you understand what _you _and _your shoes_ do to me."

All thought, every bit of judgment evaporated before the force of his voice, his eyes, his complete Tony-ness.

"Okay." I started to walk back towards the bed.

"Pep."

"What?"

"Can you?" He twirled his hand around.

For several seconds, I merely stared at him – trying to decipher his sign language. When comprehension came it bolted through my system like lightning.

"I get it. You want me to walk around in them. You want me to pretend to make calls and send emails on my BlackBerry and yell at you about meetings while I'm wearing them."

His eyes raked over me – toes to head and toes again; my body tensed to pounce – then his gaze - adoring, incendiary - met mine and I began to fall, drown, fly all over again.

"To start, Miss Potts," he said, low and deep. "To start."


End file.
